Almost
by Wynter Nytes
Summary: They lay their wretched hearts upon the young woman, her calming presence the drug that fed their addiction. Second in the Verge oneshot series. AU. Can be read as standalone. Any following readers should check my profile for information on other stories.


A sort of companion piece to my one shot "Verge". This can be read as a standalone, but I recommend reading "Verge" as it will help give you a better insight to Hermione's emotional state. AU, due to certain characters being alive that shouldn't be and general war stuff.

Title: Almost

Rating: T

Description: They lay their wretched hearts upon the young woman, her calming presence the drug that fed their addiction.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine.

**Note: **I haven't written in a very long time, so this is bound to be pretty rough. I wrote this in a single sitting with little editing. For those of you awaiting an update on "Must Love Dragons," please see my profile for details.

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><p>The brightly shining face that glowed back at him was a lie. It was nothing but a mask, worn selfishly in order to cover the cracks and worry lines etched deeply in the flesh <em>(such cold flesh, translucent.)<em>

It was worn selfishly, because while they all bared their fears and stress and exhaustion and pure tension right upon their lips, cheeks, eyes – she covered hers. She absorbed their own breaking spirits and turned them anew and fresh and resilient, yet begrudged them their own right to do the same for her.

He supposed they were just as much as fault as her, however. They lay their wretched hearts upon the young woman, her calming presence the drug that fed their addiction. She made them feel okay. She gave them hope and within that hope they themselves became rejuvenated, at least for another minute, hour, or day.

They were like vampires, sucking her young body dry. And though she was cracked and laid bare like any crumbling foundation, they came back for more _(pull back the flesh in search for more amongst the organs and guts and blood)_.

Yes, Hermione Granger was fracturing. And they were the cause of it.

The man turned dog turned man once more brought the sturdy porcelain cup to his usually smirking lips and sipped lukewarm tea. Number 12 Grimmauld Place was bustling tonight. Members of the Order were gathered throughout the kitchen and dining room, chatting freely after a large meal provided by the ever flapping Molly Weasley.

The night had started tense. Rigid and cold with the nightly reports of Death Eater activity and the recitation of casualties. Names falling from cold lips, heads bowed in honor and relief _(better them than me)_.

Her case was no different. She'd just returned from a mission in Spain and had rather grim news to report. He'd only been half listening. His eyes had been focused on her rosy lips, flush cheeks and bright eyes.

All lies, they were _(such richly shining lies, like gems)_. Carefully chosen color palettes each designed to do one thing: conceal.

He wasn't sure when she'd started wearing makeup. Fourth year, perhaps, for the Yule Ball. She certainly hadn't worn it when he first met her, bright eyed, skinny and freckle faced. Still innocent to the world but dark shadows had begun to creep inward. Especially with his presence.

He'd always felt like ink tainting the clear water when he was around her _(dark swirls and whorls looping and curling)_.

Whenever it was the first trace of camouflage appeared, no one noticed. Not even him. Perhaps it was first just a bit of gloss to entice the attentions of the hothead Weasley. But with the ever growing pressures of schoolwork, and later, Order work, the disguise became more elaborate. And necessary.

Gloss to cover the peeling and chewed lips. Two shades pinker to hide the wormy pallor.

Concealer to mask the purple, sunken hollows below her eyes.

Eye makeup to hide the swollen eyelids and bruised brows.

Foundation to wipe away the fallen cheeks, translucent skin, and whatever marks last night's battle brought.

And blush to sculpt a vision of a healthy, glowing complexion.

A cleverly crafted face to present to the world. And all a lie.

He shifted in his seat and his weathered eyes viewed the room. Laughter and warmth. All this at the expense of her. Yes, the night had began dark and cold and suffering. But then she walked in. They migrated towards her like a moth to a flame.

Each one getting their fix. First was, of course, Harry and Ron. They had dibs. Just a simple touch, a hug, and they unloaded their weight onto her. Sucked a bit of pseudo life from her. But it was enough _(for now, just enough for now. Still hungry. So hungry.)_

Then the other beasts began their hunt, their carnivorous and malicious devouring. They just needed a gesture, a wrinkling of the eyes, a curve of painted lips and their wretched souls seemed not so poor indeed.

He would not be excluded from this parasitic endeavor. All the others had taken their fill and were licking their lips, joyfully digesting both their dinner and what they had stolen from her.

He rose from his own corner, setting his teacup roughly on the table. Muddy water splashed over the sides. He nodded curtly to the others as they called out warmly to him. Fools they all were, and a fool yet was he.

His prey was in the kitchen. His foot crossed the threshold to consummate the hunt, to devour her flesh just as those before had consumed her. But he remained hovering, suddenly stricken by the presence before him.

Hermione stood facing the sink, her arms out on either side of her, bracing her thin body as her head hung down. Like sticks they were, her wrists poking out from a sweater that perhaps once fit.

She lifted her head and he saw her face in the reflection of the window above the sink. Her eyes were closed, but whatever glamor she had cast upon herself wavered in the panes of glass. And suddenly he felt despicable. _(all of you shameful. What fools and sadists and horrid souls you be.)_ What kind of man was he to rely so upon a woman just out of girlhood?

But suddenly her mask was in place once more. And she opened her eyes and saw him in the reflection. She twisted her lips into a grin _(lie, a LIE) _and turned neatly, her posture straightening instantly.

"Hello, Sirius."

It was her voice that shook him from whatever reverie he might have been caught up in. Whatever remorse that enthralled him was broken in that instant, and he crossed the kitchen in two quick steps. He hovered before her. His nearness was a surprise, her eyebrows flying up into her hairline.

But still her grin tugged at her lips.

"Um, are you alright?"

He breathed deep. Her scent, heightened to his own nose by his alter ego, rose to curl about his brain and eyes. Already his heart, weakened and heavy by dark days felt lighter. His gaze raked over her fake face.

"I wonder..." his voice was husky as he rode out the pleasure of simple contact. He brought up a hand and lay it upon her shoulder, and oh how his darkness fled his body and into hers.

She regarded him silently, questioning.

"I wonder..." he began again, "When we'll use you all up."

Her eyes narrowed. "Sirius, I haven't the faintest idea what –,"

"What kind of cracks are you hiding beneath that pretty little blush, Hermione?" Sirius interrupted, his hand tightening upon the bony protrusion of her shoulder. "There can't be much of you left."

"Sirius, I –,"

"Does this make us bad? Sick perhaps?" He grabbed her wrist to keep her from struggling away. It wasn't difficult. She felt hollow and light. Her eyes widened and fear seemed to creep into them, but that couldn't be so. There wasn't enough of her own emotions left for fear to be present.

It was realization. She knew what he was talking about.

"Why do you let us do this?" he inquired, bringing his hand from her shoulder to rest upon her face.

"Leave it, Sirius," she managed to croak out. He leaned in, brushed his lips across hers once. Felt their cool being.

He released her, backing away slowly. He watched as she slid to the ground, her body limp. Her eyes in his.

"We're going to devour you," he said simply. He left the kitchen, a large grin upon his face.

"Remus!" He shouted gleefully as he went. "How about I kick your arse at a game of chess."

Hermione sat in her repose silently. She could feel her walls fracturing, splintering, scoring up and down the stonework. The once silent screams of others she absorbed within her were wailing to be set free, scrabbling with bloody fingertips at the cement and plaster.

A deep breath _(deeper, quell their voices.)_

The roaring was in her ears now, soon it would be released from her throat. _(No! Push it down! Deeper!)_

"Hermione?"

It was Harry. His green eyes found hers as he crouched before her. "You alright?"

Her vision cleared. The voices ceased. A smile, unbidden, came to her face. "Ah, yes! I broke a glass earlier and I was making sure I got all the pieces together."

She stood. Shaky, but she stood. The boy who lived and who she fought solely for grinned back at her.

"Well come join us while we watch Remus thrash Sirius at a game of chess. He's already got him on the run. Won't be long now."

Harry left the kitchen. Hermione trailed slowly behind, a single voice screaming throughout her brain.

"_There can't be much of you left."_

She crossed the threshold into the adjoining room. Her gaze drifted along the people now cheerfully egging Remus on.

"Not long now."

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><p>Thanks for reading.<p>

-Wynter


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